


you and i'll be safe & sound

by danvers-grant (diannaprince)



Category: Supergirl (TV 2015)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Hunger Games Setting, Angst with a Happy Ending, Dead!Kal-El, F/F, Mentors!AU, Nia is Katniss but that's all secondary, Red Kryptonite Kara Danvers, when i say no one asked for this i mean it
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-07-19
Updated: 2020-07-19
Packaged: 2021-03-04 19:42:32
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,289
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25371832
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/diannaprince/pseuds/danvers-grant
Summary: Kara Zor-El is the first volunteer of District 3 in over three decades.All Kara can see in that moment in that little boy, no more than thirteen, is Kal-El’s body, lifeless on the ground for nine excruciating hours.And so she volunteers.
Relationships: Kara Danvers & Carter Grant, Kara Danvers/Cat Grant, Querl Dox/Nia Nal
Comments: 4
Kudos: 44





	you and i'll be safe & sound

**Author's Note:**

> this is honestly because of eyes open by taylor swift and a very VERY vivid 2am thought/nightmare so. 
> 
> warning: implied underage sex, implied death and violence.

_sixty-nine_

Kara Zor-El is the first volunteer of District 3 in over three decades. 

_She’s a Career in the making_ , the commentators say, as they play the highlight reels of her combat training and publish her exceptional scores from the Science Guild.

But all Kara can see in that moment is that little boy, no more than thirteen. The haunted look on his face and the way his body stiffens is exactly Kal-El. She misses the heartbreak on one of the victor’s faces as the boy steps forward unthinkingly.

She misses the murmur of shock that echoes in the stadium as the esteemed daughter of the House of El steps down from where her family watches. 

All she sees is Kal-El’s body, lifeless on the ground for nine excruciating hours. 

And so she volunteers.

**___**

In the rebroadcasts, they call her a god.

It doesn’t take long for them to draw conclusions, to connect her to the young Kryptonian heir that slipped through the cracks of their power and nobility, and who, in his first and only game, died in the arena with only one slip to his name.

Kara is forced to watch replays of his death in her first interview. _She’s been training for this_ , is what they say. _She’s avenged family in the most noble way_ , is what the headlines say afterwards.

By the time it’s over, Kara is still angry and still blood thirsty but the feelings quiet when the consequences of her actions finally settle.

For the rest of her life, she’s going to remember what it feels like to kill in cold blood. She’s going to remember how easily those bones cracked in her hands and how silent it had all been. 

She is a murderer but she isn’t. Kara Zor-El is a god amongst them, a breed of ruthlessness far greater than the Careers and with more nobility and honor that any can muster.

Kara gets to live in glory after a week-long bloodbath, soaked to the bone in shame and relief. When she walks out of that arena, she sees her parents and her aunt grieving anew. 

Surviving did nothing to bring Kal-El back. And now she returns, a walking ghost haunted by even more deaths.

  


* * *

_seventy_

Being a mentor haunts her more than Kal-El’s death ever can.

There are many victors from District 3 that are still alive. With such abundance, Kara comes to learn the trade secrets of the Games. There are the tips and tricks of show business but then there are the secrets that threaten to break her.

She has to stomach the discomfort of learning that some tributes, much older than they really are, fake their own documents to participate in the Games like it's a bloodsport. She learns that some victors are forced to sell their bodies for reassurance, for protection. She finds out about the betting pool between the mentors and fights down the curiosity about her and Kal-El.

She also learns that the mentors switch every year—they have the luxury and the power to do so and she has to contain her anger, thinking about the year Kal died.

Her mentor last year was a quiet and reserved man. She would call him a pacifist if she had not seen his victory clip of him burning down the entire arena.

There was another mentor that year, one that disappeared far too often for Kara to even speak with, let alone strategize. Kara received wisdom through notes every now and then that proved far more useful than what was counseled by Henshaw. 

This year, she’s met with neither of them, but someone closer to her age.

Winslow Schott Jr, victor of the 67th Hunger Games. The one where Kal-El died. 

They called him Toyman. 

Kara remembers watching, after Kal’s death, as Winn rigged landmines at the cornucopia and how the explosion rocked through the Capitol. She remembers watching Kal’s murderer, a Career from District 1, choke on his own blood after Winn slit his throat and was declared the victor.

Winn says nothing to her and she doesn’t bring it up, if only to avoid the perverse feeling of glee, reminded that in the end that Kal-El had gotten justice. 

Together, they stand on the first Reaping Day and watch in silence as the names are drawn. Kara and Winn watch as the champions—that’s what District 3 has taken to calling them now—step forward and hand over their lives.

The two of them do their best in the following days to comfort and coach the new tributes, but between Kara’s reputation and Winn’s muddled history, there’s not much to do with two bodies waiting to be buried.

Eve is eighteen, just a year younger than her, with only her grandmother left. Kara can tell she’s resigned herself to an early death, but her counterpart, Henry, is fifteen and terrified but naive.

Their arrival at the Capitol is to open arms, the audience is reminded of Kara’s victory the year prior and she’s overwhelmed. Now that she isn’t blinded, life at the Capitol leaves a queasiness in her stomach. 

The opulence and the pampering are reminiscent of fattening pigs before slaughter. Eve is old and experienced enough to recognize it as it is, the way Kara had not been, but Henry is taken by it.

For a boy orphaned in the slums of District 3, Kara can’t blame him.

The lavishly prepared food and the feather-soft bed and the shower that never runs out of hot water—it’s all too tempting. 

_This could be yours_ , it calls out to the both of them, Henry especially. _All you have to do is one little thing._

Kara fears that, his innocence breaking. 

So she takes him aside, drills into him the discipline of honor and nobility—the ones Astra told her, before she’d broken every single one of them in the arena—and he nods, eyes wide and hoping. 

Eve is less susceptible and hardened by a harder life that Kara doesn’t have the heart to fool her like that. Winn tells her how to rig explosives, how to get out of range and maximize the blast zone. Kara teaches her the quickest way to snap a neck. It's mercy, Kara says to herself.

Only when the tributes are rated does Kara realize her mistake. 

Eve gets a 9 out of 12, but Henry only gets a 4.

It hits her like a punch in the gut that he’s going to die. And it’s her fault that he’s going to die. 

For all the goodness and innocence Kara has tried to preserve, Henry will pay the price. 

And he does.

**__**

The day the games start is torture. 

Kara watches what she can stomach. 

But after watching too many kids —because that’s what they are no matter if they’ve trained for it—die, she escapes when she knows Henry and Eve have lived for the day. Winn remains, ever the strategist, and mingles with the sponsors.

It’s ironic that for someone who has so much blood on her hands, she can’t even watch as someone else does it.

Kara can barely remember her time in the arena, too out of it on whatever was in that vial to comprehend. The only thing she remembers is a memory that haunts her and she hopes—prays—that neither Henry or Eve will be forced to.

She takes the elevator to the roof, at the sight of her insignia the Avox defers. Kara sits out silent, looking out over the city and trying to drown out her thoughts.

She knows, logically, that if she wants Henry or Eve to live, then they too will have their moment to lose control. In the end, they _must_ kill to survive.

Innocence is a small price to pay, Kara comes to understand.

**__**

Henry finally dies after three days.

He dies in the night, and Kara wakes to his body nailed to a tree with arrows. 

She sidesteps out of Winn’s comforting grip and shoves him to the masses of sponsors, swimming in performative sympathy. She gets on the elevator and doesn’t get off at her floor, instead she finds herself on the roof.

Hours pass by and Kara stares at the sky waiting for the canon. She hasn’t cried since she volunteered as tribute, but if she were, she guesses she would probably be crying now. 

It’s late by the time she hears the elevator behind her. Winn has come to find her again—to strategize and compartmentalize and everything else. She doesn’t turn but shifts to hug her knees to her chest.

“Does it ever get easier?” She finds herself asking.

“No.” 

Kara looks over in alarm at the new voice—definitely not Winn—and finds herself staring at a woman, looking all too regal and too familiar. 

“I—. How did you get here?” The mentors' quarters are separate from the other tributes to prevent fraternization. The way the woman holds herself is far too relaxed to be another mentor, but she is tense enough to pounce at any moment. Kara can recognize the alertness and paranoia.

“You’d be surprised how much pull money has in the Capitol,” The woman responds. “Then, again, maybe you aren’t.” 

With a start, Kara realizes she’s talking about Kal-El. About Kal-El, who had one slip to his name despite everything her House had sacrificed—the false numbers and shallow endorsements—and she stands, the anger swelling in her chest.

“We’re not strangers, you and I.” The woman interrupts before Kara can even speak. It takes her a moment, but as the woman steps into the light, Kara sees blonde curls, a sly smile, and piercing green eyes. 

Realization dawns on her.

“You’re Cat Grant.” 

“Unfortunately so, my dear.”

“I—”

“—volunteered for my son, yes.”

The admission renders them both silent, and Kara thinks. All that money and power and fame and prominence. It didn’t stop the Games from taking from either of them.

“I wanted to say thank you, but I didn’t think it apt to congratulate a tribute walking into a tomb.”

“You were the other mentor,” Kara realizes. The mentor who told her to kiss the boy from District with lead on her tongue. 

Cat Grant doesn’t speak, which is as much a confirmation as anything. Instead, she moves past Kara and sits on the ledge. After a moment, Kara joins her.

She doesn’t make a move to keep her too far from the ledge because the force field that keeps them in will also keep them alive should she jump. 

“I guess I should thank you, then,” Kara finally says. 

“If you’d like,” Cat responds. “Though I don’t see why you’d thank the woman that damned you with the life of a victor.”

She’s spared from commenting by the opening notes to the Capitol anthem. The faces of the tributes that died are projected across the sky and Cat turns to face the sky. Kara has only eyes for Cat.

There were nine deaths in the past 24 hours, and Kara can’t imagine having to do this every year. She can’t imagine how long Cat has endured, watching countless children die year after year. 

“Kal-El was a good kid,” Kara begins. “He was the brother I never had. If he were alive now, he would be Henry’s age.” 

“And Carter was Kal-El’s age, younger even.” Cat surmises.

Kara nods. “All I could see was Kal-El, all over again.” 

“I was his age when I won, you know.” Cat turns to her this time. Her eyes are piercing green, swirling with emotions that Kara can’t quite read. “My name came out of the bowl and my father reassured me that a volunteer would be there, to see it through should I have been chosen. My father died before the reaping and my mother stopped the girl who was supposed to go that year from volunteering. Maybe she hoped I would have died in that arena.”

“I’m sorry,” Kara apologizes instinctively. She wasn’t born when those Games were televised but she’s read about it in passing from the pamphlet on District 3’s victors. 

She can see it now. Thirteen-year-old Cat Grant waiting anxiously for a volunteer that never steps forward. 

Cat Grant, who goes on to later win the Games as the youngest victor from District 3, by clawing out a tributes eyes and throat with her bare hands. It’s nothing different from the drug induced rage that left Kara surrounded by three bodies.

“Now, what have I said about that word?” Cat teases. There’s a sternness in Cat’s voice underneath, and Kara is reminded of a note stuck to a table with a knife. 

_Never apologize. Make them pay for it._

“Right.” Kara winces. “I guess all we’re stuck with is saying thank you.”

_To each other, to the Capitol, to an unforgiving audience._

The bitterness in her voice is subtle, all her feelings are left unspoken. But Cat surprises her and seems to sense it. She laughs hollowly. _Good_.

**__**

Kara goes back to the roof every night after, heart in her throat the longer Eve stays in the Games. Cat doesn’t always meet her there but when she’s there, they talk.

At first, it’s silence. They sit close enough that it’s comforting. That all changes the day Eve dies. Kara doesn’t cry but Cat does. 

Kara had known it was coming, one of the tributes ironically named Adam has been playing her. The tentative alliance turned romance is page out of Kara’s playbook—maybe more of Cat’s, actually—because Kara can only watch helplessly when Adam fucks her and then runs a sword right through her when he’s done.

Cat smells of vodka when she steps out of the elevator and Kara only needs to offer a hand before Cat falls into her shoulder with a muffled sob. Kara has no comforting words to offer up. Instead, she takes out her own flask and hands it over.

“Are you even old enough to drink?” Cat slurs before opening it and taking a swig. 

“No one says no to a victor,” Kara dodges the question easily. She snatches it back to take a swig herself. The liquid burns and she tries not to grimace like it’s her first time drinking.

“My mother did.” Cat snaps. And smartly, Kara shuts up. 

She doesn’t know much about Katherine Grant save for the whispers here and there around the Capitol. She doesn’t think she can handle finding out any more trade secrets so Kara doesn’t prod.

They drink, long enough that Kara’s head is spinning. The alcohol sits warm and heavy in her stomach but Cat Grant in her arms sends a warmth even lower and Kara fights that sensation. Cat Grant is old money and has more prestige than Kara can ever dream of having. She’s untouchable and unattainable.

After a moment, Cat finally speaks. “He's my son.”

Kara doesn’t understand.

“Adam. I killed his father the same way.” Cat elaborates.

And Kara thinks about it. She did the same thing last year with the Daxamite, on Cat's own words of advice. She fights the bile coming up her throat at the thought of a thirteen year old seducing an eighteen year old and she laughs instead. 

She can’t help it. She keeps laughing. It’s hollow and bitter but it's not angry. And Cat joins her.

Their laughs peter out into silence—sobs for Cat—and everything falls into place in Kara’s mind. She wonders if she’s destined to live out her life like this, cycling over and over, forced to watch as tribute after tribute repeats what she's done all for the sake of entertainment. 

“I hope he wins, Cat,” Kara finally says. It’s the right thing to say, because Cat sits up and looks at her face.

“I do too.” Cat smiles sadly, but her eyes are elsewhere. She’s not looking at her, but through her, so Kara pulls Cat closer and they hold each other.

Kara ignores the way her heart skips a beat. They stay that way until the sun wakes them up.

**__**

Adam doesn’t win.

He makes it all the way to the end but falls down in the early hours of the morning to the younger tribute, Kara comes to find out. Kara is asleep again when it happens. But it’s unmistakable when the canon wakes her earlier than expected.

The girl from District 1 is declared Panem’s next victor.

Kara doesn’t stick around for the victory feasts this time around. She doesn’t wait up to see how Adam dies, instead, she sneaks out to Cat’s room. It’s empty and being cleaned when she arrives, and when she beckons an Avox forward, she’s handed a card with an address.

She hides away in her room for the rest of the day and packs what little she brought. Winn comes to see her off and it’s with a solemn nod that they agree to meet, afterwards, in the Victory Village.

Later that night, Kara goes to the roof and contemplates everything. 

She’s nineteen and she has seen far too much. She’s the youngest of all the mentors and it’s a heart breaking intersection: being just young enough to be a tribute and barely old enough to be a mentor. This isn’t fair.

None of it is fair.

It’s like the sky knows how she’s feeling. The brilliant sunset splashed across the sky is red. It is angry, the color of blood, and Kara fights the urge to scream. 

“I’m sorry,” She hears from behind her. It’s Cat.

“That’s new.” 

“I figured now that I’ve lost one son I can stop saying thank you.”

“It’s not losing if they’re taken from you.” Kara points out. “Is this really the rest of my life now?”

Cat doesn’t answer right away so she continues. “How do you do it?” 

“There’s this thing called a vice,” Cat says. “Other than that, well…” Cat trails off. “Let me know when you figure it out.” 

Kara inhales sharply. She can’t believe this is her life now, a lapdog to pull out and brandish every year. Another bitter cog in a grand machine.

This time, Cat is the one that reaches for Kara’s hand to comfort her. They’re sober and still reeling from all these wounds and this is their last day at the Capitol and Kara leans into it, afraid.

Cat’s thumb draws absent-minded patterns across her knuckles. They’re so close together, and Kara wants nothing more than to press her lips to Cat’s.

But they’re both grieving. And this is neither the right place nor the right moment. 

Hours pass and eventually the sun sets. Kara’s train to District 3 leaves in soon and she knows Cat has her own mansion—her other son—to get to. There’s a hesitance when they step into the elevator. 

“For what it’s worth, I’m glad I met you.” Kara says. “In person this time.” Kara adds.

“And I, you.” Cat responds. “You’re something special, Kara Zor-El.” 

The elevator dings and the doors begin to open. They stand at the lobby ready to part ways and before Kara loses her nerve, she presses a kiss to Cat’s cheek.

“Don’t be a stranger,” Kara says. “Please.” 

There's a shift in Cat’s face at the uttered plea and she nods, imperceptibly. Kara closes her eyes and turns around then, not waiting to see what happens if this good bye is their last good bye. She walks away from Cat, away from those piercing green eyes. She ignores Cat’s gaze burning into her as she steps into the town car.

When the door closes, Kara finally cries.

**Author's Note:**

> find me on tumblr @danvers-grant


End file.
